


Just Us

by LeilaKalomi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awake the Snake (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Is Trying (Good Omens), Body insecurity, Comfort/Angst, Crowley Has Self-Esteem Issues (Good Omens), Crowley Has Snake Genitalia (sort of), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Explicit Consent, Intimacy, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Non-Penetrative Sex, Post-Episode: Good Omens: Lockdown, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Intimacy Issues, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaKalomi/pseuds/LeilaKalomi
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale's growing intimacy raises new concerns for Crowley just before lockdown comes into effect. After a terrible misunderstanding, a deeply disappointed Crowley struggles to set aside the love and desire he feels for Aziraphale. But Aziraphale can't accept that a simple sexual mishap could have destroyed everything they'd built together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 91
Kudos: 419
Collections: The Snake Pit





	1. Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the GO Events server, especially my betas, Anti_Kate and madeofmydreams, and additional readers, noodlefrog and EdnaV, for your thoughtful feedback. You are all invaluable.

_July 1_

Crowley shuts off his alarm as soon as it starts to blare. He’d been barely asleep for the last day or so anyway. He should have known it wouldn’t work. He’d hoped Aziraphale would stop him before he fell asleep. Had hoped he might come sometime during June and wake him. But why should he? He groans at the memory.

_I could hunker down at your place. Slither over and watch you eat cake._ Could he have been any more transparent? And after what had happened, which Aziraphale hadn’t even mentioned because it had been horrible.

_It’s against the rules_ , Aziraphale had said.

_Crowley_ is against the rules. That was what he meant, because Aziraphale knows now what being with Crowley is like. Maybe he had tried, but Crowley just hadn’t been what he’d expected, what he’d wanted. And that’s fine. It has to be fine. It isn’t the angel’s fault.

Sleeping hasn’t solved anything. He might as well just go back to sleep. Crowley throws himself back against the pillows and closes his eyes again, but sleep won’t come. All he can think about is Aziraphale, the way he’d felt in Crowley’s arms, the shy little smile, the way his body had gone rigid and he’d said Crowley’s name and closed his eyes in bliss. And then he’d opened his eyes and looked down at Crowley, at his body, his eyes full of shame and questions Crowley couldn’t answer.

* * *

In the months after they’d saved the world, things had changed between them. They’d spent more time together. Then they’d spent almost _all_ of their time together. They weren’t shy about it, or even reserved. Crowley hadn’t been too cagey; Aziraphale hadn’t been too coy. They just wanted to be together, and so they were. Aziraphale sat beside him on the sofa in his bookshop and they held hands sometimes, because it felt good and they could admit that they were special to each other. Sometimes there was a hug, an embrace. Sometimes there was a kiss to the cheek or forehead. The first time Aziraphale had come home with Crowley, he’d giggled when Crowley laughed at him in his old-fashioned pajamas (“Well, there’s no sense getting new ones; these have hardly seen any use as it is!”) and they’d sat up in bed, drinking wine and watching _Golden Girls_ until Crowley fell asleep, head in the angel’s lap. It was nice. And it kept happening: Aziraphale in his bed. They’d wake up (or Crowley would—Aziraphale, true to form, didn’t always sleep) wrapped around each other, warm and content. Crowley had hardly believed how easy it had been to have this.

It didn’t feel like anything _sexual_. Crowley didn’t often have those feelings anyway, but he’d long been aware that if he did, it was a personal matter, not something he’d do on behalf of Hell, not something he’d involve _people_ in. It didn’t bother him, what he had there. It was another part of him, like his eyes, his tongue, his feet, that seemed sort of _stuck_. If he sometimes thought of Aziraphale when he felt that way, well, that was fine. It didn’t matter. It was just in his head. He knew that he was in love with Aziraphale, but he certainly wouldn’t expect the angel to do anything like that with him. He was an angel. Angels had to be...really committed...if they were going to do something like that. And Aziraphale, well, he never seemed to have those feelings either.

But in retrospect, Crowley supposed he should have known. Aziraphale, after all, had a predilection for romance novels. And the way he’d always looked at Crowley wasn’t exactly subtle. Maybe he _had_ known. Maybe, for all he’d thought everything was so easy, it had been that way because they were ignoring something. Something big. Aziraphale kissed him one morning when he was making coffee and growling at the machine. He came up behind Crowley, settled his hands on his waist and turned him around. He’d been _right there_ , and he looked so hopeful as he leaned in, so Crowley leaned in too, and the kiss fell on his lips. Aziraphale shifted his hands to press gently into his back, holding him close, and the kiss turned slow and languorous. Their mouths opened into each other. Aziraphale sighed. Crowley moaned.

When they broke apart, Crowley said, “Right,” and Aziraphale smiled and wiggled. He looked so devilishly pleased with himself, like he’d looked when he told Crowley how he’d asked the archangel Michael to miracle him a bath towel, so Crowley grabbed him and hugged him, and then they were laughing and kissing again and again.

It was wonderful, but it changed things. At night, sleep came later, because there was still wine and talking, and television, but there were also Aziraphale’s hands stroking Crowley’s bare arms and chest and back. Crowley wanted to touch him too, so he’d take off Aziraphale’s pajama top so they could press together and he could explore his soft skin and fine dusting of pale hair and the pink nipples that peeked out. Crowley did not have nipples, and it fascinated him that Aziraphale did. He’d never seen them up so close on anyone. They were soft sometimes, but if Crowley touched them the right way, they grew stiff and peaked. It made Aziraphale’s breath catch. When Crowley kissed them, or sucked gently on them, Aziraphale’s hand curled into his hair, and his body shook slightly.

“Oh, _angel_ ,” he said, one evening, looking down at Aziraphale beneath him. He liked the sight very much, but Aziraphale was frowning. “All right?”

“Perfectly. Oh, I only wish I could...show you.” He reached out, trailed a hand across Crowley’s chest, brushing careful fingers through the hair there. “This doesn’t work for you, does it?”

“It’s nice,” Crowley said, tilting his head to one side as he considered. All of Aziraphale’s touches felt nice. But he could see that it wasn’t the same as when he touched Aziraphale there, almost like a current flowed through the angel. Aziraphale dropped his gaze between them, then slid a hand down to rest on Crowley’s hip.

“What if we took our trousers off?” Aziraphale said, his voice husky and a little shy. “We wouldn’t have to _do_ anything, necessarily. It’s just, well, we’ve never done that before, have we?”

“OK,” Crowley said, because everything felt heady and good. But there was something...but it didn’t matter. Everything was fine. Everything was good. He wanted to see Aziraphale out of his trousers. Wanted to press the whole length of him against the whole length of Aziraphale, with nothing between them. He didn’t move, though, because it wasn’t just Aziraphale, not just Crowley seeing him, but Aziraphale seeing Crowley. And Crowley was _different_ from Aziraphale, in a way he might not expect. Crowley sighed and moved to lie on his side next to Aziraphale.

“Darling?” Aziraphale rolled onto his side, resting a hand on his arm. “Oh, my _dear_. We don’t have to, of course.”

“No, it’s fine,” Crowley said. “We can.”

“Oh, but I want it to be much better than _fine_ ,” Aziraphale said. “Tell me what you want. Would you like to just sleep tonight?”

Crowley shook his head, not looking at Aziraphale.

“What then, dearest?”

“You. Want to...I want to see you.” He plucked at the flannel of Aziraphale’s pajama bottoms, just below his hip.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “Well, that’s…” he stood, undid the tie at the top of the trousers and pushed them off, lifting his legs out of them. “Simple enough,” he finished, smiling. Crowley stared openmouthed at the expanse of pale thighs, the round, dimpled buttocks, as Aziraphale placed the folded garment onto the dresser.

He turned around to return to the bed, and Crowley saw his cock for the first time, soft and pink and nested in white blond hair. It bobbed gently against his balls as he walked.

“All right?” he whispered, leaning forward over the bed and trailing a hand through Crowley’s hair. His tone was soft and sweet, like warm honey. Crowley couldn’t stand it, couldn’t wait. Not if Aziraphale was going to be like this, and of course he was. He was always like this now, without Heaven peering over his shoulder. Crowley didn’t think. Beneath the covers, he tugged at his own pajamas, undid the drawstring and kicked them off.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. “May I?” he reached for the covers.

Crowley nodded.

“If you’re sure,” Aziraphale said.

“Go _on_ , angel.”

The covers flicked open, exposing Crowley to the cool air, to Aziraphale’s gaze. His eyes trailed over the blank, gently ridged expanse of skin between his legs. “Oh, darling,” Aziraphale said, smiling in that way that looked like he was melting inside. “May I get in?”

Crowley let out a deep sigh of relief and nodded. Aziraphale hadn’t looked disappointed. He’d looked pleased, even. And he still wanted to be with Crowley.

Aziraphale pressed in behind him, hugging him. His body felt warm and soft and comforting. He kissed the back of Crowley’s head. “You’re so very lovely. Just as I knew you would be.” Crowley trembled in his arms as Aziraphale pressed more kisses to his head and cheeks. “Why don’t we turn on the television now, my dear?” he suggested. Crowley nodded. Much more of this and he didn’t know what he’d do. He’d been so scared, but it was OK. It was better than OK. And there was probably no reason Aziraphale would ever have to know about the other thing. So Crowley reached for the remote control and jabbed at it until the TV did what it ought.

* * *

When Crowley awoke, their positions were reversed, he’d wrapped himself around Aziraphale, who was lying on his side, reading. The TV was off. It was early; the sun wasn’t up yet. They were both still naked. Crowley inched forward, burying his face in Aziraphale soft hair and sighing. He smelled like lavender and book dust and open air. Aziraphale set his book down and took Crowley’s hands in his, trailing his fingers over them.

“Good morning, darling,” he said. His skin felt good against Crowley’s. Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s head and neck, pulling him closer. He brought his hands up again, to touch his nipples. He’d liked that. Crowley liked that he liked it, liked the way Aziraphale’s body felt against him, squirming and pressing. Aziraphale sighed and gasped and whispered Crowley’s name, which made Crowley feel like something was blossoming in his chest. Crowley kissed his neck and Aziraphale pulled away, but only to turn over and kiss him. The covers fell off of them, and Crowley didn’t even notice right away, except that then Aziraphale was looking down at him _there_ and saying, “Oh, _Crowley_ ,” as if he’d had done something unexpected, as if he was fragile, and he looked down too and _it_ was happening. In full view. He froze.

“No, no, no!” He rolled over, away from Aziraphale, so he wouldn’t have to see, pulling up his knees as if there was anyone else to see, to hide it from. The panic surprised him. He didn’t know where it was coming from. But it was there. “Sssorry. Shit, I’m sssorry, angel. Didn’t mean...didn’t mean for it to just...sssorry.” _Oh, not with the hissing, not now._

Aziraphale’s fingers brushed his shoulder impossibly, then withdrew.

“It’s all right,” he said. Crowley frowned and shook his head. “It is, Crowley. Is that what it looks like when you...when you feel aroused?”

Crowley wanted to disappear. He felt very small and altogether entirely too _present_.

“I’m _ssorry_. I know it’s not like that for you. _Arousing_. I know that’s not, not what we’re doing.”

“It’s not?” Aziraphale said. His tone was mild, curious.

“You don’t do that. It’s OK, I don’t expect you to.”

“I _can_.” Aziraphale’s hand returned to his shoulder, squeezed gently, then began making slow strokes against Crowley’s back. He took a long inhale and gave a shuddering sigh. “I’ve been thinking lately that I might like to. Only, I didn’t think that _you_...well, I wasn’t sure if you could. Did.”

“But you didn’t get...Yesterday...you weren’t...you know, turned on.”

“Neither were you,” Aziraphale pointed out. “You really looked quite different yesterday.”

Crowley felt his face grow hot. He looked down at himself. It had nearly retracted, and he was almost returned to his former smoothness, the cloaca only just barely open now. Nothing sticking out. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe and think of something besides Aziraphale’s soft hand on his back. Hastur, perhaps. The pus-filled boils on Beelzebub’s face. Did he look like that to Aziraphale? Something monstrous and disgusting? Half-formed. Probably not. Aziraphale’s hands were still on him, after all, and now Aziraphale’s lips pressed briefly against his shoulder. Crowley shuddered.

“Would you like to see _me_ right now?” Aziraphale said, his voice tight and husky. Crowley closed his eyes again and nodded. He looked down at himself, back to his usual appearance now. If he could just keep it that way. He flipped over and looked into Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Look a bit lower,” Aziraphale said, smiling. His face was pink, his eyelashes fluttering nervously. Crowley rested a fingertip at the corner of Aziraphale’s eye, tracing the lines there. It seemed to still him. “If you like, that is,” he whispered. Crowley kissed him, then drew back a little and looked down. His belly gave a lurch. Aziraphale’s cock had stood up, stretching up toward his belly. Crowley kept his gaze away from his own body. He could feel it stirring and didn’t want to know what it was doing.

“So you see,” Aziraphale said. He sounded nervous again. “It’s not just you.”

“You...you did this on purpose,” Crowley said, desperately. “I know what angels are like, Aziraphale. I know you have to try.”

“Oh, _well_. Yes, you might put it that way. But that doesn’t mean it was difficult. It doesn’t mean I didn’t want to. I only had to make it _possible_. The rest is all...just, as it should be.”

_As it should be._ Crowley frowned slightly. He didn’t like the expression, but that was normal, he supposed, for a demon.

“Of course you’re as you should be,” he said. “You’re an angel.”

“Honestly, Crowley. Even now?”

Crowley laughed. _As it should be_ , he thought, but he tried not to. He reached out and pressed a palm to Aziraphale’s belly, making him twitch. Crowley drew back as if he’d been burned.

“Fuck, angel. Sorry, should have asked.”

“It’s all right.” Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in both of his. _As it should be_. What did that even mean? Aziraphale was an _angel_. Crowley was a _demon_. What about Crowley was as it should be? “Your hand is just a little cold.”

“Yeah? Need me to warm it up for you?” Crowley said, pushing away the unpleasant thought again. “Got something in mind for me and my warm hand?”

Aziraphale blushed, pink flooding him down to his chest. He let go of Crowley’s hand and pulled the blankets back up, covering Crowley up to his shoulders. Crowley recognized the gesture as a nervous one, Aziraphale deflecting.

“There you go,” Aziraphale said. “Can’t have you freezing, can we?”

Crowley pushed himself closer to Aziraphale and kissed his chest, then slipped beneath the covers to kiss his stomach.

“Can I touch you?” he said. “I mean, can I kiss—”

Aziraphale’s face had scrunched up with pleasure, as if he needed to concentrate on it. But he looked happy enough. It was very much the way he looked when he was enjoying an eclair. He nodded. “If you’re sure.”

Crowley kissed his stomach again and then, his own chest pounding, his own belly swooping, he moved lower in the bed and kissed the underside of Aziraphale’s cock. Aziraphale gasped and pushed the bedding down a bit, so Crowley’s head was visible. Crowley looked up at him.

“OK?”

“I just want to be able to see you,” Aziraphale said. He rested his hand on Crowley’s head. “Go on. If you like.”

Crowley kissed it again, letting his mouth open slightly, the kisses growing messier until he was licking rather than kissing and Aziraphale was leaking, dripping, groaning. Crowley felt more and more euphoric as Aziraphale’s scent intensified, and he drew his tongue along his length, wound it around him, and slid up and down, base to tip, with abandon. Nothing mattered except Aziraphale, the way he writhed, the way his arse felt in Crowley’s hands as he gripped it to hold him close, the sounds he made as he arched up against Crowley’s mouth. Crowley wrapped his hands around Aziraphale’s thighs, parting them slightly and bending down to rest his head against the thatch of soft hair at his pubis. The blankets had slid off and the light hit Aziraphale as Crowley drew back. Crowley kissed him there, the pink furl pulsing slightly as if it breathed, then slid his hands up so that his fingers slipped between Aziraphale’s buttocks. Aziraphale moaned and let his thighs rest against Crowley’s head as Crowley licked over his bollocks, then back up his cock, moving toward the tip. As he reached it, Aziraphale shifted and gasped, then gave a low moan.

“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, oh, _ohh_ …”

He felt it, warm in his hair, even on the back of his neck. He was baffled for just a moment, then came back to himself enough to understand, enough to draw up and tongue the pulsing tip of Aziraphale’s cock, tasting him, drinking him down. Aziraphale keened his name again,, his body tight, muscles rigid, then soft. After a moment, he pressed fingers into Crowley’s sticky hair, stilling him. Aziraphale stroked his head for a moment, and Crowley didn’t know what to do. He rested his cheek against Aziraphale’s thigh.

“Crowley,” he whispered. “Look at me. Come here, darling.”

Crowley looked up. Aziraphale’s hand slipped beneath his chin even as Crowley slithered up toward him. He let Aziraphale guide him to lie against his chest, then closed his eyes as Aziraphale kissed his forehead and stroked his neck as he miracled the semen from his hair and skin, even though Crowley hadn’t minded, not really.

“Oh, you sweet thing. I am sorry that was so...forceful,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley opened his eyes. _What?_

Aziraphale looked hesitant, uncertain.

“I didn’t mean to...I didn’t know it would be so messy. Rather undignified, I’m afraid.”

Crowley grunted. It was, but he’d _liked_ that, had liked watching Aziraphale give up all of his self- and Heaven-imposed niceties. It had been beautiful to see, like he was exempt from all that, like Aziraphale wanted Crowley to know him. He started to say as much, but before he could shape the words, Aziraphale said, “You _know_ , if you like, I can…” Aziraphale gestured down at him. _Oh fuck_. It was fully visible, he could tell. Sensitive to the air, the little brushes against the bed and Aziraphale’s thigh. Aziraphale’s face looked confused, a little afraid, even. Crowley looked down at himself, pressing his lips together.

It almost looked like a sponge. Rounded and puckered all over with a thousand little folds. Aziraphale obviously didn’t know what to do with it. He certainly wouldn’t want to _touch_ it. Probably horrified at the fact that it _had_ touched him, even just his leg, for a moment as Crowley had lain against him. _Crowley_ didn’t even know what to call it, not really. Snakes had two. Hemipenes. But what did you call it when there was just one? A _hemipenis_? Did that even make sense? A half penis? Without the implication of another half? And the other thing, the opening, the cloaca. The word meant _sewer_. Something foul and dirty. Like Hell. Aziraphale’s hand moved gently at his side, caressing the skin near the bottom of his rib cage. Crowley didn’t look at his face again. He couldn’t stand it, the way Aziraphale was looking at him, like he _wanted_ something Crowley knew he couldn’t give him, like he didn’t understand what he was even looking at when it was _Crowley_ , it was just _Crowley_ , the same being he’d been looking at now for six thousand years, and only now, Crowley supposed, did he finally see.

“No,” Crowley said, finally. He drew away, then, almost as an afterthought, rolled over again and drew up his knees. He felt Aziraphale’s arms come around him and he drew away from the touch, making himself smaller and feeling humiliated even as he did. Aziraphale let go.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, darling, can you look at me?”

But it wasn’t all right. Crowley didn’t know how he could ever look at him again. Or why Aziraphale would want him to.

“Oh, darling. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said. He sounded so sad.

Crowley didn’t move. He felt flat, dead. He hated hearing Aziraphale sound that way, but he didn’t see what he could do about it that would make any difference. Not now. Not when all he had to work with was _himself_. The silence stretched out another few moments. Crowley felt his cloaca close fully.

“Should I go?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley nodded. He didn’t know what else to do. No point dragging it out. There was a rustle, a shifting, as Aziraphale stood. The blankets descended over Crowley, Aziraphale covering him, as if he still wanted to keep him warm. And then Aziraphale was gone.

* * *

They’d seen each other since then. Aziraphale had come back that evening, and after a few niceties and a little forced bickering, they’d sat on the couch in silence. Finally, Crowley had stood up to go to bed. Aziraphale had blushed, stammered, and suggested that he go home. Crowley had just nodded again.

There was one other time. About a week later. They hadn’t spoken for a few days and Crowley had calmed down a bit and started to feel guilty, remembering the way Aziraphale had felt beneath him, the way he’d said his name as he came, how truly sorry he’d sounded for not wanting Crowley. He’d covered Crowley before he left, had made sure the blanket covered his shoulders so he wouldn’t get cold. So Crowley called him. They were friends, after all. He didn’t want to lose that, even if he didn’t feel ready to deal with it right now.

Aziraphale had sounded glad to hear from him. They went to dinner. Aziraphale didn’t reach for him, didn’t hug him. Maybe he was just unsure, Crowley’s stupid, useless brain told him. He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t try this stuff again, but he did. He lay his hand on top of Aziraphale’s on the table and looked at him hopefully. Aziraphale looked up, his eyes catching on Crowley’s. They looked at each other for a long moment.

“Crowley, dear,” he began. His voice came out hopeful, too, but careful. “I’m a bit confused,” he said finally.

“What, angel?” Crowley said.

“Do you...regret what happened?”

Crowley stared at him.

“I didn’t mean to press you,” Aziraphale added. “I don’t assume that you _want_ what I want. And just because I was ready for you to touch me intimately doesn’t mean I expected that you felt the same. But, Crowley, did you enjoy what we did? Well, leaving aside the way I...finished. Oh, well, no, you needn’t—needn’t answer that.”

_Right._ His _enjoyment_ had been pretty obvious.

“Only,” Aziraphale gave a great sigh, “if that was all you wanted. To...to pleasure _me_...well, that’s perfectly fine. Even if it’s just for now. If...if you still wanted...ever...”

Crowley gulped. “Just for now,” he repeated. Aziraphale nodded. Of course. Because Aziraphale _had_ enjoyed what they’d done; it made sense he’d want to repeat it. And it made sense that eventually Aziraphale would get sick of him. Something in him prickled with anger, though. Not at Aziraphale, but...he didn’t know if he could do that. _Pleasure_ Aziraphale, who would never touch him the same way, not knowing, as he did, that it was just for now.

“I think...we shouldn’t have,” Crowley said, making a decision. He pushed on, hurt and desperate to hide it, to stop himself from inviting more pain. “I’m a demon, Aziraphale. Sometimes it seems like you want to forget that. I don’t know what you think this is.”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said. He sounded small, embarrassed. “Of course. I don’t—didn’t—well. Dear fellow, I’m ever so sorry to have brought it up.”

Crowley had gone home alone, drunk himself into a stupor, and gone to sleep. A few days after that, the whole stupid lockdown came into effect, and then Crowley had nothing to do at all but sit around and think about it, wishing it had gone differently. He tried following the news to see if he could do anything to speed things along to normal again, but he couldn’t seem to _think_ , and whatever he’d said to Aziraphale, he had no desire to try anything properly demonic. He tried traveling, snapping himself around to a few places, but it wasn’t any fun with all the people gone or walking along with partners or family, making him miss the angel and feel even more alone.

Eventually, he started taking it in two-day cycles—two days of sleep, two (or maybe a little less) of being awake. Then Aziraphale called, and acted like it was the old days again, like Crowley’s only allegiance was to Hell, which hurt almost as much as his silence. _What about our side?_ Crowley wanted to ask him. _There is no “our side,” Crowley._ Crowley had slept until July. Until now.

* * *

_Well_ , he thinks, as he sits up in bed, _it didn’t work._ He’d known it wouldn’t. The last time he’d slept for eighty years and it still hadn’t been enough to make him forget what he felt for Aziraphale. He stands up, thinking he’ll find something else to drink. Must be cognac left, at least. And then he hears it, something shattering in his living room, and a soft “Oh, bother.”

Aziraphale. He’s here.


	2. Aziraphale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely betas, Anti_kate and madeofmydreams, and to EdnaV and noodlefrog for all your feedback.

_July 1_

Aziraphale’s hand shakes as he pours coffee from Crowley’s complicated machine into one of his tall black mugs. He thinks he heard stirring from the bedroom. It’s July now, midday. Crowley should be awake soon. But that doesn’t mean he’ll want to see Aziraphale.

Aziraphale hadn’t wanted to wake him. That would be intruding, but this was just stopping in to make sure all was well and offer him the torte Aziraphale had made just for him. It might be all right. Especially as Crowley’s calmed down enough to take his calls. He’d taken Aziraphale’s last call, at least. Had seemed _not angry_ , willing to talk. Had even offered to come over. Aziraphale tries not to think of that; it hurts too much to remember that he’d said no. It had seemed like the right thing at the time. But later...

* * *

Aziraphale had been so pleased that first night at Crowley’s, when Crowley had fallen asleep in his lap. He’d been even happier when he’d found the courage to kiss him. He knew Crowley cared for him, knew that it went beyond friendship, but he wasn’t sure, until their lips found each other’s, until Crowley clutched him and kissed him again, that it was exactly _that_. He loved their mutual exploration of each others’ bodies, and had been so pleased with how open and receptive Crowley had been. Crowley, whatever he said, had always been giving and gentle, but now he let Aziraphale show him those same qualities, and he accepted them without deflecting, without claiming that he, a demon, didn’t need them.

Aziraphale had only ever meant undressing as a suggestion. He wouldn’t have minded if Crowley didn’t want to, if Crowley didn’t want _him_ to. After, he replayed it all in his head: Crowley had definitely initiated sex. Aziraphale hadn’t _asked_ him; it had definitely been Crowley’s suggestion. Crowley had even had lain against him after Aziraphale had...embarrassed himself, rather. Aziraphale hadn’t been able to see his face then. He might have been in shock, or confused. When it had gone wrong, he hadn’t seemed angry, but hurt.

Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps they’d simply done those things, then Crowley had realized, as he’d said later, that they shouldn’t have. That he hadn’t liked it after all, hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t wanted _Aziraphale_ that way. Aziraphale hated that it had happened because it had upset Crowley so much. It had torn down what they had built since Armageddon—no, Aziraphale couldn’t accept that; he refused to believe it was completely destroyed. But even so he couldn’t think of it without horrible guilt. The memory of Crowley’s rapturous face as he kissed and licked Aziraphale, of the elegant way Crowley’s body had opened up, and something like a flower bloomed between his hips, now left him with a deep, crushing sadness.

 _I don’t know what you think this is_ , Crowley had said, the last time they’d seen each other.

Aziraphale had _thought_ that they loved each other, that theirs was an equal partnership, a solid, enduring, relationship that had grown deeper, more encompassing than ever. He had thought they would always be together, now that they’d moved past what no longer mattered. At least, it didn’t matter to Aziraphale, the supposed differences between them. Not in a way he thought should keep them apart.

But Crowley had reminded him that he was a demon, that Aziraphale shouldn’t forget it. He’d said it as if the differences between them meant something to him. Aziraphale had supposed it must have meant he didn’t want Aziraphale hanging around all the time, peppering him with kisses and comments on his goodness. Because the differences did matter. Perhaps. Or perhaps it was just _him._

He’d never wanted to hurt Crowley, but it seemed like he had, and he hadn’t even known.

When he went to his shop after it happened, he’d spent some time researching. Yes, he knew you were supposed to warn someone when you were about to come. He’d picked up _that_ much from literature, but how were you supposed to know? It wasn’t as if he’d ever done it before.

Perhaps it was something to do with snakes? He looked up snake sex, and spent rather a lot of time learning about the sexual practices of reptiles, but Crowley wasn’t a _reptile_ any more than he was a mammal. Male snakes had hemipenes, two of them. Crowley’s didn’t look much like any of the pictures he found, and he only had one. Anyway, _everyone’s_ bodies were different, that was what the books he’d read on human sexuality said. It was normal to have questions, to not be sure what would please a partner. But Aziraphale _hadn’t_ pleased Crowley, and they couldn’t even talk about why. So, he supposed, that was that. Perhaps they could resume their friendship eventually. He kept his face stiff when he thought these things. He did not allow himself to ruminate and wallow. He tried a phone call when it had been a while. He let himself hope that perhaps Crowley would accept it, that they could talk, that maybe it would be like the old days, before he’d ruined everything.

But then Crowley suggested not only flouting the rules to come over in the middle of a pandemic, but also _watching him eat_. _Oh, no, no._ He knew by now that Crowley liked the way he enjoyed his food. It was either a bad idea for Crowley—getting this whole thing started back up again—or it was a demonic temptation, just Crowley trying to convince him, an angel, to bend the rules, and that was what had led him down this whole path, anyway, to the arrangement and friendship and ultimately, falling in love with Crowley, a demon. It hurt Aziraphale to think that way, but Crowley _had_ reminded him: He was a demon.

 _I don’t know what you think this is._ Was that what he’d meant?

Or maybe it was a third thing: Crowley trying to see if he still liked it, now that the shine had gone off Aziraphale. And maybe he wouldn’t anymore.

So Aziraphale had told him no, reminded him that it was against the rules, and sat alone in his bookshop. He kept busy reading and baking and blessing humans almost at random and trying not to think as he waited for the months to pass and for Crowley to call back.

Then, he realized: Crowley might not.

It could be years before they saw each other again. Decades even. Once, it had been a whole century. And then he realized a lot of other things. First among them, that he was not willing to lose Crowley. And second— _he_ didn’t know what _Crowley_ thought they’d been doing. Perhaps, if they could answer that, he could understand what had upset him so. Perhaps Aziraphale hadn’t done anything so terrible after all. There was really only one way to find out.

* * *

So now, he pours coffee in Crowley’s kitchen and waits. And then he hears it again, a loud groan, blankets stirring. His shaking hand slips, the cup breaks, and coffee splashes all over Crowley’s pristine white floor. “Oh, bother,” he says. Perhaps he should go home after all. He snaps his fingers to clean up the mess and pours again.

The door opens. Crowley stands just outside it.

“Angel,” he says, coldly.

“I’ve made you coffee,” Aziraphale says. He half expects Crowley will refuse it. But Crowley only takes a few steps toward the kitchen, stretching. He’s wearing only his silk pajama bottoms, as he always had when they’d shared the bed. He doesn’t try to cover himself. He’s beautiful, his hair artfully disheveled, his face clean-shaven as ever.

Aziraphale blushes and adds the obnoxious coffee whitener—organic, nut free, amaretto oatmilk—Crowley likes. (It makes no sense to Aziraphale how anything could be both nut-free and amaretto, or why Crowley would need anything to be nut-free in the first place, but Aziraphale had taken care to find the right one, to pour in exactly the right amount.) He sets the slim black mug on the kitchen island as Crowley takes a seat.

“So, what,” Crowley says. “Rules change, did they?”

“It’s fine, yes. Just...just two households. And it isn’t as if...as if anyone is watching.”

Crowley, ironically at this moment, is studying Aziraphale quite closely. He takes a long sip of the coffee and does not comment on the flavor, which Aziraphale takes to mean he has got it right.

“Are you going to sit down or just stare at me?” Crowley snaps. “Holy water in this or something?”

Aziraphale realizes then that Crowley had not been the only one staring. “No, of course not,” he says. Did Crowley really think he would try to hurt him? No, he was only trying to get a rise out of him. He clasps his hands in front of him nervously, gripping tightly to stop them from shaking. They’d had so many breakfasts here together. Aziraphale hesitates, looks down at the counter, then clears his throat. This is what he’s come for, after all. He braces himself.

“ _What_ , angel?”

“I miss you. I miss you terribly, Crowley. And I...I’ve had a great deal of time to _think_ , and I’m afraid I still don’t understand what went so wrong. But I am so dreadfully sorry. Whatever it is I’ve done, anything. Nothing is worth this to me. Honestly. I know I should have warned you better before I...I lost control that way. But I can’t believe this is all about that. I’ve apologized for that. So many times. I know it can be considered disrespectful, but it was an accident born of inexperience, and it’s hardly the worst thing that I’ve ever...well, but perhaps that’s the reason—one too many, as they say? The straw that broke...”

Crowley holds the cup of coffee as if he’s forgotten it’s there.

“Angel, what? No, no, please don’t tell me you’re still harping on about coming all over me. It’s _fine_.”

“Then _what_? Oh, my dear, you don’t know how hard I’ve gone over and over my actions. I thought...I thought we had a lovely time that morning. I thought you did too. I never would—Crowley, we finally have _time_ , we finally have—well, _forever_ , possibly. I don’t want to spend it alone. I don’t want to spend it without you. Won’t you tell me how I can make it right?”

“No, no, no. _Ahh_. You can _not_ wake me up with this.”

“I _didn’t_ wake you—did I? Oh, I’m _sorry_ ,” Aziraphale manages. His voice is barely working now. “Oh, dear, perhaps I should have left you to it.”

“No, angel, you didn’t wake me. Look. I just. This is a lot. This is not what I...you want to spend forever with me?” There’s hope in that tone. Aziraphale isn’t imagining it.

“Of course I do. Crowley, my goodness. I would have thought that was obvious. I love you. So terribly much. I’m _in love_ with you. Or at least, I thought—though perhaps it’s not what you—”

“Not what I what?” Crowley cuts in. He’s rapt now, his focus so intense it’s almost hard for Aziraphale to meet his gaze. Hard, except that his eyes have gone _soft_ , though there’s still an angry, suspicious cast to his jaw, a curl to his lips.

“Demons don’t...like things like that perhaps.”

Crowley sips the coffee now, pointedly, then sets it on the table. He presses his eyes closed. “Angel, I—Fuck. You never said.”

“I thought we...understood each other.” Aziraphale holds his gaze. “But I see now that we were operating on very different—”

“Love you,” Crowley says firmly. He sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer, more hesitant. “Always have. Anything for you, anything to be _near_ you.”

“Always?”

“ _I gave it away!_ ” Crowley mimics, smiling gently. Aziraphale swats at him, then realizes. That was six thousand sixteen years ago.

“Oh, my gracious,” he whispers. The silence stretches out. Crowley’s gaze drops back to the table. “So...then what exactly happened, my dear?”

“What _happened_? You looked at me like I had—had _barnacles_ growing out of my _pudendum_ and then you told me _I_ could just touch _you_ and you only wanted it _for now_.” He shakes his head. “After all this time, Aziraphale, and you said you just wanted me for now.”

Aziraphale stares. He’s quite certain he’d never done any of those things. “What? I _never_ —”

But the memory floods him. Sitting across from Crowley, trying to fix things then, when it had still felt salvageable. “Even if it’s just for now.” he’d said. Oh, but he’d only meant that if Crowley wasn’t comfortable with Aziraphale touching him, that that was all right, even if he changed his mind later. But Crowley must have thought he meant something quite different.

“Crowley,” he starts. He swallows uncomfortably, trying to figure out where to begin.

“Don’t pretend. You couldn’t stand the sight of me. Not when you found out what I...what it was like.”

Aziraphale gasps. He had, indeed, been surprised, but not especially. Crowley had many snake features, after all. When he’d first seen the soft, ridged expanse, he’d thought it meant Crowley didn’t have genitals, even though he seemed intensely interested in stimulating Aziraphale. It hadn’t bothered Aziraphale at all, but he found that he had been pleasantly surprised to see that this initial impression had been wrong. He had hoped to pleasure Crowley too, to be close with him that way, to let him experience the same kind of pleasure he’d given Aziraphale.

“Oh, Crowley.” Aziraphale shakes his head, swallowing. “Oh, _no. No_ , darling. I _never_ wanted you only _for now_.”

“You didn’t want to touch me after. Now you’ve changed your tune. What’s the matter, angel? Get too _lonely_ under quarantine?”

“Of course not. Crowley, I _offered_ to...to touch you. I would have been so happy to show you… Although, I didn’t presume to know what _you_ wanted. You did seem rather shy.”

“Not shy,” Crowley murmurs. He stares down into his coffee, but Aziraphale can see his irises have expanded, his eyes turned wholly yellow.

“And then you shut down,” he says carefully. “I...thought perhaps you were upset with me for losing control, so I offered to leave.”

Crowley growls. “I was _not_ _upset_ with you for _coming_. That was the idea.”

Aziraphale waits, thinking perhaps more will come, but instead, Crowley stands up, drains the rest of his coffee, and tosses the mug into the sink, where it shatters for the second time as he turns and stalks out of the room.

“Crowley!”

He doesn’t answer.

* * *

Aziraphale can hear Crowley roaring at his plants. He sighs and looks at the chocolate cherry torte he’d brought. Crowley’s favorite, and he hadn’t even touched it. And now he’s in a frightful rage. All over something that Aziraphale hadn’t understood at all. He’d gotten the wrong end of the stick entirely.

He stands up and cuts himself a slice of the torte, then returns to the counter. He eats absently as he thinks. The torte is a delicious counterpoint to his anxious thoughts.

They love each other. He’d been right about that at least. Which means that it wasn’t all him, imposing. And Crowley hasn’t asked him to leave. Perhaps they can try again. Perhaps they can get some of their comfort with each other back. If it wasn’t just Aziraphale who’d felt any comfort at all.

The shouting subsides. As Aziraphale notices the quiet, the door opens and Crowley stalks back into the kitchen. He lifts the whole of the remaining torte to his lips and opens his mouth, looking at Aziraphale pointedly. Then he shoves the whole thing in, where it shouldn't fit, and swallows.

“Not bad,” he says.

“Oh good,” Aziraphale says. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

Crowley leans against the counter and watches him.

“Crowley, perhaps—

“Angel—”

“Oh, please go on.”

“Look, I’m sorry. All right? I shouldn’t have assumed. I’ll—I’ll take you at your word. If you mean it.”

Aziraphale blinks at him.

“ _Do_ you?” Crowley says.

“Of _course_.”

Crowley lets out a long sigh.

“If you’re still hungry,” Aziraphale begins, hesitant. He pauses. Crowley raises an eyebrow. “If you’re still hungry, I thought I might fetch in something from the curry shop.”

“Back open, are they?”

“For takeaway,” Aziraphale says.

“Hang on—have the rules changed or haven’t they? _You’re_ here.”

Aziraphale’s face grows hot. “Well, yes,” he says. “Because I want to be. And they’ve said now, as I mentioned, that you can see others. The idea is to form...bubbles. ”

“ _Bubbles_.”

“Support bubbles.” Aziraphale winces, waiting for the mockery. He’s raw enough that it would sting. But Crowley just pushes off against the counter and drops into the other chair at his kitchen island. He’s not quite smiling, not scowling anymore, either, though. He rests his chin on his hand, and looks down at Aziraphale’s plate, then back up at him.

“Right. Well, finish your cake thing, then. And we’ll see about the takeaway.”

* * *

They fetch the takeaway together, in masks—Crowley doesn’t complain other than a few halfhearted grumbles—and eat it together on Crowley’s sofa. The conversation is tentative at first, but it doesn’t take long for them to relax, especially after a couple of glasses of wine. Afterwards, Aziraphale decides to return to his shop, which is nominally open at certain hours (though he makes sure hardly anyone actually comes in). He’s surprised when Crowley stands up and follows him out.

“Want to take a walk,” he says. “See how things are, move around a bit. Been lying still for two months, haven’t I?”

Aziraphale doubts very much that Crowley was still. His own experience lying beside Crowley as he sleeps would indicate otherwise, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he makes sure Crowley is wearing his mask before they head out, separating at the building’s exit.

* * *

_July 3–26_

After that, it’s slow but sure. Aziraphale returns two days later. The day after that, Crowley comes to the shop, collapses on the sofa, and proceeds to rant about the general pointlessness of everything under the new rules. Aziraphale supposes it makes sense. He’s just woken up to this, hasn’t had time to get used to the way everything’s sort of half-and-half now. He knows they should minimize the back and forth, but he hasn’t the heart to tell Crowley he shouldn’t have come, and knows he has no intention of staying home himself if Crowley isn’t back within two days.

The pattern goes on for weeks, Crowley in his shop. _Just as he should be,_ Aziraphale thinks. And then, nearly a month in, Crowley hesitates and takes his hand where it rests next to him on Aziraphale’s sofa.

Aziraphale looks at it in shock. He resists saying anything. They haven’t talked about it—about feelings and such—since that first day. So he just holds Crowley’s hand and feels his chest lurch with hope, the wine clouding his thoughts and sliding him into something warm and wanting. But he just smiles.

“OK?” Crowley says.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley looks away, but he doesn’t let go.

* * *

_July 27_

The next night, when Aziraphale walks him to the door, there’s a kiss. A tentative thing, given only after Crowley asks for permission. It’s good, Aziraphale thinks, this cautiousness. Perhaps this was where they’d gone wrong before—everything deceptively easy, until it wasn’t.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says softly. “I appreciate how careful you’re being. I want to let you know that I’ll do the same. I want you to feel free to decline anything I ask that makes you uncomfortable.”

Crowley’s eyes dart downward behind his sunglasses, so Aziraphale says, “It’s important, darling. Will you do that?”

“Yeah, all right. Whatever. Just.”

“Just?”

“Just, let’s talk about something else.”

Aziraphale frowns.

“Or better yet,” Crowley says, grinning now as he brackets Aziraphale’s shoulders with his hands, pushing him gently against a bookshelf.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and meets his lips, wrapping his arms gently around Crowley’s slender form as Crowley’s arms move around him too. He feels so right in Aziraphale’s arms; it’s been too long since he could hold him. Crowley doesn’t go stiff, doesn’t pull away.

“This OK?” Crowley says, pulling back just enough to speak, then leaning back in, to kiss him again, letting his tongue slide out to trace the seam of Aziraphale’s lips.

“Yes, darling, please,” Aziraphale says against his mouth.

Crowley kisses him again, quite thoroughly, then he pulls back and studies him.

“Promise me too, then,” he says. “Nothing you don’t want.”

“There is nothing I don’t want with you, darling. But I promise.”

* * *

_August 17_

“Come home with me,” Crowley suggests one night. Aziraphale’s body ignites with surprise and unwelcome uncertainty. “If you want,” Crowley adds. He looks away when he says this, turning his head away from Aziraphale, as if there’s anything he could reasonably be looking at in the middle distance between where they sit on the sofa and Aziraphale’s haphazardly stacked bookshelf.

“I would like that,” Aziraphale says. “Only, I do wonder if you’re really certain. If it really is what you want.”

“I asked, didn’t I? Forget it then.”

“No, no, Crowley, that isn’t—of course I’ll come, my dear, if you’d like that.”

Crowley stands, still not looking at him, and extends a hand. Aziraphale lets out a shaky sigh of relief and takes it.

* * *

And then they are on _Crowley’s_ sofa, the air between them heavy and charged.

Aziraphale tries to focus on the television program, but he can feel Crowley watching him. Can see him, in his peripheral vision as Crowley lifts a hand before it lands in his hair and begins to stroke. Aziraphale closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

“I want—” Crowley begins.

“Anything,” Aziraphale says. His voice comes out a whisper, and he hadn’t realized how desperate it had become between them, if only because they’d been trying so hard to be careful, that perhaps they’d overcorrected; perhaps they’d let the fear take the lead and shut out everything else.

Crowley twists his body in a way no else would have been able to manage, and then he’s kissing Aziraphale, his mouth wet and his dexterous tongue sliding against Aziraphale’s lips, pushing inside, stroking against Aziraphale’s. Aziraphale moans into the kiss and is rewarded with an answering moan from Crowley. Crowley pushes against him, so he falls back against the sofa, gasping, and Crowley laughs as Aziraphale, still holding him, inadvertently pulls him down too.

“OK?” Crowley says.

“Perfectly. If...if you’re sure.”

Crowley gives an annoyed, theatrical sigh and begins licking Aziraphale’s neck, sucking at it. Aziraphale feels Crowley’s slim thighs slotting against his own and thrusts up against him, gasping.

“Oh,” he says, surprised. “I didn’t mean to—”

Crowley licks his ear. “Angel, please. Mean it.”

Aziraphale shudders and thrusts again without meaning to, but then, Crowley had said—so he does it again and Crowley grinds down against him.

“Yessss,” he hisses. Aziraphale tightens his arms against him, pulling him closer. He’s hard, and he can feel the bulge in Crowley’s trousers, even through all their layers. It had looked so sensitive. Those soft-looking petals, pressed up against that zipper, not too soft really, perhaps, if Aziraphale can feel it press against his own hardness, but…

“Crowley—” he begins.

“Is it OK?” Crowley says. His voice is rough. He pauses, looking down at Aziraphale, intently, eyes gone fully yellow again. His mouth hangs open slightly, hesitant.

“Yes, my dear.” Crowley’s hips start to move again. “Oh, yes, that’s perfect,” Aziraphale manages, his hands sliding lower, grasping Crowley’s buttocks, pulling his hips more tightly to his own. For a while there’s no sound but the slide of clothes against each other, against the sofa, Aziraphale’s gasps, Crowley’s groans, and the sounds of their lips and tongues against skin. Crowley’s body begins to shake, and he moans, clinging to Aziraphale. Aziraphale holds him tight and meets his thrusts, picturing the bloom in Crowley’s trousers. What is it like when Crowley comes, Aziraphale wonders. Does he ejaculate? Does it look different, still, to his arousal? Aziraphale feels the answering flare of heat in his abdomen, the throb between his thighs, and his hips twitch as he comes, hot and sticky inside his clothes.

They rock together for a while, clinging to each other as Crowley whispers _angel_ over and over.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, as his mind clears. He reaches out to touch the side of Crowley’s face, where it’s pressed against his neck. Aziraphale’s skin there is suspiciously wet. “Can you look at me?”

There’s a movement, which Aziraphale realizes is Crowley shaking his head. _No._

“What’s wrong, my dear?” Aziraphale swallows heavily. _Please, not this again, please_. Hadn’t they been careful? What had he done wrong this time?

“I’m fine,” Crowley says, even as Aziraphale feels his body convulsing, the tears dripping over his own skin. “Nothing’s wrong.”

But then Aziraphale remembers. He hadn’t done anything _wrong_ the last time. It hadn’t been about him. Crowley had been afraid, he’d felt judged and found to be wanting. And Aziraphale had been too preoccupied with his own insecurities to realize. He will not make the same mistake again.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says, threading his fingers through Crowley’s silky hair. They haven’t said it since that first day. He hadn’t been sure it was the thing. “I love you so very much.”

But now Crowley shakes harder.

“Love you,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a declaration, but something Crowley hadn’t understood, words without a meaning. Aziraphale looks down at Crowley, and at the slight movement, Crowley’s hold on him tightens. “Don’t leave. I’m sorry. Just don’t leave. Please. Not yet.”

For a moment, Aziraphale can’t speak. Why on earth would—? He opens his mouth to reassure, and then he realizes—it isn’t about what’s just happened. Or, well, it is. But it isn’t only that. All the carefulness, all the checking in. He’d thought it was _mutual_ , that Crowley understood that he wanted to be careful so they didn’t have the same problem as before and was extending the same courtesy back. But now he sees that hadn’t been that way at all. Crowley was trying to find the line, trying to find the place where Aziraphale would push back, would stop him, not only because he wanted to respect Aziraphale’s limits, but because he was so sure they were _there_. All this time, he wasn’t looking for personal boundaries, but trying to suss out rejection so he wouldn’t be caught unawares.

He kisses Crowley’s head, keeps his face pressed against it, keeps the two of them tucked together. He tries to surround Crowley with his body, his presence, his love.

“Oh, my dear, no, no. I won’t leave. I don’t ever want to leave you. I love you, darling. I _love you_.” Aziraphale hesitates, then adds, “All of you.”


	3. Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely betas, Anti_kate and madeofmydreams, and to EdnaV and noodlefrog for all your feedback.

_July 1_

Crowley had left Aziraphale in the kitchen, and that was probably stupid. He’d slept for three months, and that definitely was. All this time and Aziraphale hadn’t meant what he’d thought, had thought Crowley didn’t want to be with him because of the way he’d _come_. He’d said he _loved_ Crowley.

He rages at the plants. Some of them have spots. One of them had actually started to wither.

“I suppose I didn’t make myself clear,” he snaps. “What, exactly, was so hard to understand about _behave yourselves_.”

Aziraphale never lied to Crowley unless there was a very good reason. He hadn’t lied, then, when he said he hadn’t meant _for now_. It was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t lied, then, when he’d said that he hadn’t been repulsed. He hadn’t denied the way he’d looked at Crowley. But they hadn’t really talked about it. Maybe that was a misunderstanding too, if the other stuff was. Maybe Crowley had seen what he’d expected to.

He still remembers the soft hand on his back, the gentle arms encircling him; that made him feel safe, that he’d flinched away from because he’d been so _sure_ Aziraphale was going to hurt him. But ultimately, he’d only left when Crowley agreed that he should. He might have stayed otherwise. Might have held him, even, if he’d let him.

What had happened was Crowley’s fault. Not something he couldn’t change, as he’d told himself. So now, he has to _try_.

He remembers asking Aziraphale about trying. About, well, making an effort. Otherwise, well, it was all just body parts, where angels were concerned, nothing sexual about it. But Aziraphale had tried because he wanted to. He wanted to with Crowley. And then after...Crowley had sent him away? Fuck, that must have been how it had felt.

Perhaps if Aziraphale had tried, so can he.

* * *

_July 3–25_

He begins to slip back to the bookshop. Quietly at first, almost as if if he just miracles himself onto the couch, Aziraphale won’t notice that he’s there, talking to him. There aren’t any customers. Aziraphale’s shop is _mostly_ closed. He’ll open it if he needs to—if someone needs somewhere quick and safe to hide, or is otherwise in need of something the angel can provide. He thinks Crowley doesn’t see, thinks he doesn’t know how he still finds ways to help them. Crowley had always known he would.

He thinks sometimes of what Aziraphale said to him at his kitchen island. Of what he said back. They haven’t spoken of it again. But there wasn’t any doubt what he’d meant. He hadn’t thought there was any doubt of what Aziraphale meant, either.

* * *

_July 26_

“What was that thing, that dreadful American thing, the math problem?” Aziraphale says. He’s sitting next to Crowley on the sofa. He’d started that a week ago, one afternoon when Crowley had sat up to make a point, and Aziraphale had gone off to find a book to explain why Crowley was wrong, but then he’d come back and sat next to him to show him (although Crowley’s point still stands), and never gone back to the desk chair.

“I’ve got no idea what you mean,” Crowley says, sipping his wine.

“The game show. The...something something problem?”

 _Right_. Surprisingly, that _is_ enough information for Crowley to understand this reference, but now he debates whether it’s worth it to continue this pretense. He loves pretending to be proudly uninformed, ill-read. Nothing else infuriates Aziraphale in quite the same low-stakes way. But he can’t fail to notice that Aziraphale has set his hand close to Crowley’s. Almost as if he’s hoping to be understood in more than one way.

“Are you talking about Monty Hall?” he asks.

“Yes! Oh, yes, dear! That’s it.” Now his face is alight. That smile. Crowley had done that. Crowley remembers thinking he’d never see it again. Real and bright and just for him. His hand twitches.

Maybe it’s all right to make sure. Because Aziraphale is still looking at him _that way_ , the way he’d looked that day before he’d kissed him. Maybe he’s waiting for Crowley. The last time Crowley had touched his hand hadn’t gone so well...but no. Crowley is _trying_. This is different. He’ll just have to accept that it will be hard.

He hesitates before lifting his hand to rest it gently on Aziraphale’s. It’s awkward, uncomfortable, for a moment. Aziraphale pauses, but Crowley doesn’t pull back, and then Aziraphale, turns his hand up, to press their palms together..

When Crowley looks at him, he’s still smiling, bright, but quiet now, as if he’s something deeper than happy: joyful, content. Crowley can’t stop himself from grinning.

“OK?” he asks.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says. They sit in silence for a while before Aziraphale speaks again. “Oh, yes, Monty Hall. Did you...your lot have anything to do with that? Your former lot, I mean. Seems a bit unethical.”

_Former lot._

“It’s a math problem, angel. Not exactly a faithful representation of anything in the real world.”

“But Monty Hall was a real television host, wasn’t he?”

“Well, yeah, but…”Aziraphale’s hands are soft. Warm. There. “If you think I invented probability, you’re giving me way too much credit.”

They don’t speak of it, but they clasp each others’ hands the rest of the evening. Crowley gives Aziraphale’s a little squeeze before he finally lets go, eyes drooping with fatigue.

Aziraphale’s smile deepens at the little squeeze, but he doesn’t do anything more. Crowley silences the voice that tells him that it’s because he doesn’t want anything more, that a hand is a hand, but _Crowley_ is…

He can’t listen to it. That’s not what trying looks like.

* * *

_July 27_

“You know, angel,” Crowley begins, where he’s just miracled himself onto the sofa. Aziraphale turns and looks at him, already smiling indulgently. Crowley looks away, grateful for his sunglasses.

“What do I know, Crowley?” Aziraphale says, reminding him that he’d been going somewhere with this.

“I read an article that says Monty Hall doesn’t work. Says you _shouldn’t_ switch doors.”

“Oh, but—”

“That’s just if you follow the rules and conditions. But have you really looked at them, angel?”

For a moment, it seems like Aziraphale’s about to argue, but then he sighs, wiggling as he relaxes into his chair in a way Crowley had seldom seen before the apocalypse. It makes Crowley lose his breath, makes his chest go all tight and warm. Before, when something like this happened, he might have kissed Aziraphale. Now, he just looks away again.

“I’m sure you’ll enlighten me,” Aziraphale says, and Crowley doesn’t even remember what he’s meant to say. “Why don’t I fetch us a bottle first? And perhaps some sachertorte?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Anything.”

But the idea doesn’t go away. He tries to talk himself out of it, reminding himself of why it’s not a good idea. It might be too fast, it might not be what Aziraphale wants. But it is, at least it seems like it is. And before, hadn’t _Aziraphale_ taken that chance? When Crowley’s grown so sleepy he can barely stand it, and he and Aziraphale are about to miracle themselves sober, he takes Aziraphale’s hand again as he stands up to leave. He doesn’t want to push, but he has to try. If he lets himself think about it first, he’ll never do anything.

“I was wondering…” he says, hating himself already. Stupid beginning. Why had he…?

“Yes, my dear?”

“K—kiss goodnight?” Crowley says. _Oh, fuck, that was even worse._ Crowley’s body floods with heat.

“Of course. Yes. Please.” Aziraphale blushes, but then has the gall to stand there and look at him eagerly. How is he supposed to—? But he does, a soft, careful brush of lips, because what if it’s too much too soon? But then Aziraphale leans in, chasing the contact, and he thinks, _maybe it wasn’t enough_.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says. “I appreciate how careful you’re being. I want to let you know that I’ll do the same. I want you to feel free to decline anything I ask that makes you uncomfortable.”

 _Uncomfortable. Why is he thinking about that now?_ Aziraphale’s hands are on his, his breath still so close. It’s almost like he’s asking for another kiss, but he’s not closing the distance. His eyes search Crowley’s, questioning and almost fearful. But he wants, he’s filled up with it. Crowley can tell, and right now it’s too much to stand here and just feel it, examine it, try to poke holes in it, see how deep it runs.

So Crowley agrees and kisses him again, against the bookshelf by the door, and he’d been right, Aziraphale really _had_ wanted more, judging by the way he embraces Crowley, the way he presses them together, so Crowley kisses deeper, sliding their tongues together. Aziraphale gasps.

“This OK?” Crowley says, suddenly pushing down panic.

“Yes, darling, please.” Aziraphale doesn’t let go of him. Crowley doesn’t want him to. Doesn’t want to be surprised like that again, left exposed, cold and alone. But if Aziraphale hadn’t gasped, he might not have stopped, might have escalated things again, and then...not yet. Not yet.

“Promise me too, then,” he says. “Nothing you don’t want.” Maybe this way they can keep it going, maybe this way he’ll know exactly what to do for Aziraphale, exactly how much of him Aziraphale can stand. He hesitates, realizing he’s just inadvertently put their whole relationship on the table.

But Aziraphale says, “There is nothing I don’t want with you, darling, but I promise.” And he means it, Crowley can tell. Or at least he thinks he does.

* * *

_August 17_

Crowley is pushing him down into the sofa, his own sofa this time, and Aziraphale moans and moves beneath him as Crowley sucks gently on his neck. Maybe he should slow down. Aziraphale had been skittish about coming here, which was Crowley’s fault, but Aziraphale had said it was all right, he’d said it was good, but maybe he doesn’t want—his hips buck up against Crowley and Crowley’s mouth falls open at the evidence that he does, in fact, _want_.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “I didn’t mean to—”

Crowley’s tongue flickers out against Aziraphale’s ear, scenting his desire, tasting his skin. “Angel, please. Mean it.”

He kisses him, and Aziraphale does it again. He means it.

Crowley forgets the problem as they move against each other, both of them kissing and clinging on as if someone is trying to tear them apart. It feels as if there’s too much between them, but neither of them takes anything off, neither reach beneath clothes or undo buttons (except for the matter of Aziraphale’s ridiculous bow-tie and collar, but that was just comfort and practicality). Aziraphale’s cock is hard against Crowley’s thigh, and Crowley nudges it, grinds down against him, as his own arousal emerges and presses against his trousers. He hisses at the friction of it, at the tiny whimpers of pleasure coming from Aziraphale as he kisses Crowley’s lips, chin, anything he can reach, it seems. _Fuck._

Aziraphale _wants this_. Wants _him_.

But then: “Crowley—?”

 _No, no._ “Is it OK?”

“Yes, my dear. Oh, yes, that’s perfect.”

Crowley closes his eyes in relief that slides into abandon. Perfect. He’s perfect. Aziraphale thinks he’s perfect. That isn’t what he said, exactly, but it doesn’t matter because they are in this moment together, and he’s perfect, everything is perfect, except that they’re just not close enough, but the clothes between them don’t matter, all that matters is this, them moving together, because Aziraphale is here, and it’s perfect. Perfect. So Crowley keeps moving, holds Aziraphale closer, feels the way Aziraphale is pushing up against him, like he wants the same thing. Crowley. Perfect.

The moment stretches out and up into a peak, and Crowley can’t control his movements then, can’t see, can’t hear., Pleasure forks through him like lightning, like the taste of a thick drizzle of honey stretched across his tongue and he’s groaning, but it’s nothing to the sound of Aziraphale’s breath, the way he bucks underneath Crowley, his head thrashing from side to side. He’d never thought he’d see him like this again, never thought he’d get to share this feeling with him.

He melts into Aziraphale, feeling as if they’ve been woven together from the inside, but it’s too much, because they’d done that, and Aziraphale knows what it means, what Crowley is like, and he’s still here, and that’s not—it can’t—it’s only because he hadn’t had to _see_ this time, it’s only—but it’s not, it’s _not_. Aziraphale’s arms are still around him, and they’re firm and warm. Aziraphale _wanted_ this. Aziraphale wants _him_.

Still.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, touching his face. His touch is so gentle, so soft. Crowley is crying, the tears leaking down his cheeks and gathering between the skin of his face and Aziraphale’s neck. “Can you look at me?”

Not that. Not yet. He’d asked for that last time, and Crowley couldn’t look at him then either. Now he’ll leave again, now he’ll think that’s what Crowley wants this time too, just because he can’t get it together. He’ll think he’s done something wrong, and he’ll leave, and there will be nothing—

“What’s wrong, my dear?” Aziraphale says.

“I’m fine,” Crowley says. “Nothing’s wrong.”

There’s a silence. Crowley waits. Aziraphale moves and Crowley winces, waiting for him to let go. Instead, Crowley feels his hair being stroked, feels Aziraphale inhale again before speaking.

“I love you,” Aziraphale says. “I love you so very much.”

Crowley sobs.

“Love you,” he repeats. _Why did he say that? Love. He loves me. Love. I was supposed to say that. Why didn’t I say that? I can’t. I can’t. But what if—?_ “Don’t leave. I’m sorry. Just don’t leave. Please. Not yet.”

Something happens. Aziraphale’s presence seems to grow stronger, more forceful, like he’s angry—no like he’s shielding them, both of them together. “Oh, my dear, no, no,” Aziraphale says. Crowley holds on to him and Aziraphale holds him too. It would crush anyone else, to be held this way by either of them. The feeling of Aziraphale’s presence is still there, folding around him too. It’s thick, heavy, like a warm quilt, covering all of him, all of both of them together. Crowley almost can’t breathe, but that’s all right.

“I don’t ever want to leave you,” Aziraphale is saying. “I love you, darling. I _love you_. All of you.”

Crowley can’t stop shaking, can’t stop his eyes from dripping, his body from heaving. And he can’t stop holding on. He believes him. And it’s terrifying.

* * *

After a while, Crowley stands up, realizing he’s effectively holding Aziraphale in place. He’s clean, he realizes, without having done anything about it, and he looks at Aziraphale, wanting to say so much that the thank you for this small thing hardly registers. The idea of being apart from him at this moment is nearly unthinkable.

“Will you stay?” he says, raking his hands through his hair.

“Of course,” Aziraphale says.

In the bedroom, Crowley miracles himself into his pajama bottoms and watches Aziraphale in his tartan, slip beneath the covers next to him. _He loves me_ , he thinks, his heart swelling with his own affection. _He really does._ Crowley moves closer to him in the bed and pulls the angel’s soft body against his own.

He remembers sending him away the last time they’d been here, just after they’d been similarly intimate. Aziraphale had made himself so vulnerable and Crowley had sent him away, had let him believe that he’d done something wrong, unforgivable even. Crowley hadn’t done it intentionally, of course, but it must have hurt. Yet now he’s back, willing to try again, because he _loves_ him. _I’m so sorry, angel_ , he thinks. But he can’t say it. Aziraphale wouldn’t understand now, what the apology was for. And to explain now—well, that would be too much. He’s only just started to _feel_ this, that Aziraphale _knows_ him and still loves him. _Really_ loves him. Best not to push it just now. Maybe when things are a little easier.

* * *

_August 21_

“I’m sorry about last time,” Crowley says, as he rests his head on Aziraphale’s soft, downy chest. Aziraphale’s come is in his hair again, but this time it’s his own fault. They’d both known what they were doing this time, more or less. (When he told Aziraphale to leave it for now, Aziraphale gave a gasp of surprise and crushed their bodies together.) It’s different than it had been, but Crowley is grateful he’s still in his pajamas.

“I understand,” Aziraphale says, carefully. “I mean, I think I do. You thought I was unwilling to...reciprocate.”

“You weren’t,” Crowley concedes. “I know. It was...I just felt...I don’t know.”

“I do think your body is lovely,” Aziraphale says, softly. “But of course, if you don’t share that view—”

“No, it’s not—I don’t think much about it at all,” Crowley says. “I mean, I didn’t, before. It was just there, you know? It’s not...human, though. Not snake stuff either, really.”

“Does it have to be?”

“Just thought you’d expect something else. You’re like humans, you know? Yours is all industry standard.”

“ _Crowley_. Industry standard, honestly. It’s...well, it’s your... _stuff_ , as you say. _Your_ body. That’s all that matters to _me_. I’m honored that you’ve shared it with me.”

There’s a silence. Crowley feels like there is something very specific he ought to say right now. Something very specific he _wants_ to say right now. But—

“Would you maybe want...” he begins. But Aziraphale does not jump in to finish his sentence and save him. He sighs. “Would you want to...to touch me? My...it?” _Oh, that’s appealing._

“Is that what you call it?”

“What else?”

“ _Penis_ , I should think?”

“But it’s not—not like other ones. And I mean, it’s not like snakes’—snakes have two, you know? I’ve got just one. So...yeah, _penis_ I guess. But...”

“Does that matter, my dear? Or is there some other reason you don’t like the term for yourself?”

“No. Just. Feels like...I’m all wrong. And you’re...we’re _different_ , Aziraphale. Do you ever think maybe it means we shouldn’t...?”

Aziraphale, damn him, just waits. Crowley sighs, tries again.

“Think maybe you shouldn’t...be with me? Want me, like this?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, his arms tightening around Crowley. “Because I do want you. And I’ve spent entirely too long thinking about what I _should_ want. So long that sometimes I couldn’t even tell what I _did_ want. It found a way of making itself known, though.” He kisses Crowley’s head. “And now...well. We’re together, Crowley. No one else’s opinion matters about that. Not anymore. Only yours and mine. Isn’t that lovely? What does it matter if anyone else thinks I shouldn’t want you? That we shouldn’t be together? Do _you_ feel as if we shouldn’t be together this way?”

“No,” Crowley says quickly. “It’s just...do you really…?” This time the silence is, blessedly, brief.

“ _Yes_ ,” Aziraphale says. “Do you believe me?”

Crowley nods.

“Good.”

They lie there in silence a while longer as Aziraphale kisses and strokes his hair.

“Darling,” he says, after a few minutes. “I want to touch you. Will you lie back? Will you show me how to make you feel good?”

Crowley nods and, trembling, rolls onto his back, looking up at Aziraphale.

“Please,” he says, not sure what he means by it, why the word came out alone. He takes Aziraphale’s hand and guides it to the place over his pajamas where his cloaca, now, is still open a little. “Just...stroke,” he says. “It’ll come back out.”

Aziraphale does. He leans forward to kiss Crowley, slotting their lips together, then peppering kisses down his neck as his hand moves gently across him. Crowley gasps as his genitals move into Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale keeps his hand moving as he ends the kiss to study his face. Crowley stares back. Aziraphale’s face changes. He looks pleased, curious. Crowley names the expressions so he doesn’t assign another meaning to them, something that would make him roll away. It’s still hard to believe that expression is directed at him, hard to believe it can mean what it so clearly does.

“Should I continue to—”

“Yes, like that. Ahh,” Crowley’s eyes close. “You can, like, press a little. Push down harder. _Fuck_.”

Crowley’s body begins to move, but there’s still something missing, something he _wants._

“That’s it,” Aziraphale says. “Oh, yes, my dear, exactly.”

“Wait—”

Crowley slides his thumbs into his pajama bottoms.

“If I take these off...is this still OK?”

“Of course. Does that mean—may I...see you?”

 _Yes_ , he wants that. If Aziraphale doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t look at him like some curiosity. He nods, not looking at Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley, I won’t if you don’t want that.”

“I want you to look,” Crowley says. “I _want_ you to like it.”

Crowley shoves down his pajama bottoms, and Aziraphale’s hand moves to his hip, brushing over the skin, pulling him closer.

“ _Please_ , Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale’s lips twist into something coy and mischievous. He trails his fingers across Crowley’s pelvis before pressing his hand back over him cupping him gently. Then he looks down. Crowley decides to chance a look at him, and finds his face open and delighted.

“It’s...the skin,” he says, softly. “Lovely. So soft, like a flower petal. What if I…” he pulls back the covers slightly so he can slide lower and Crowley can still see. His fingers trace the divots, slip into and across them, and Crowley trembles.

“Is that good?”

“Angel, oh, dear _Somebody_ ,” Crowley presses against him, his pelvis rising off the bed as Aziraphale’s fingers start to move again.

Aziraphale continues to traces the edges of him there, then rests his palm over him again, pressing into the folded skin. Crowley’s hips shift, and he bucks up, letting out a strangled noise that turns to a long moan. Aziraphale slides one arm under him, lifting him up against his chest as his hand keeps moving. He brushes against Aziraphale and realizes that he’s hard again. For Crowley, even now. He clings to Aziraphale, gasping and whimpering as he comes, and Aziraphale holds him, one strong arm anchoring him against his own solid body as the other hand strokes and presses. Then he gently lowers Crowley back to the bed.

“You are so beautiful, Crowley. Thank you for letting me see you this way. Thank you, my darling. What an honor this is.”

Crowley doesn’t want to like the things Aziraphale says to him, but he does. They make him weak, make him cling. So he holds on and doesn’t let himself say anything; it would only come out as a whine, a whimper.

When he does finally speak, he can only think to say, “I love you.” But that seems to have been the right thing, because Aziraphale says it too.

When Crowley recovers enough to come to his senses, he turns on his side, away from Aziraphale, but Aziraphale wraps his arms around him from behind, and Crowley pushes back into the solid warmth of him, lets Aziraphale make him feel safe. It’s hard to understand, Aziraphale really wanting this. But Crowley believes him. He’ll remind himself until he no longer has to.


End file.
